Unbreakable Bond (3 page)

"Malibu was hot," he repeated. "The sun was shinning, the water was clear, and the bikinis were tiny. Heaven."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s all about the bikinis for you men, isn’t it?"

"That’s what keeps you in business, babe." Danny popped a chip in his mouth. "Speaking of which, how’d the footage from last night work?"

"Perfect. The judge is toast."

"It was the dress. You were smokin' in the dress."

"Thank you. I thought so, too."

"You give it to the wife?"

"This morning."

He lifted his beer in the air. "Then cheers to a job well done."

I lifted my water glass and clanked against the side of his bottle.

"So," Danny said, eyeing me as he took a slow, deliberate sip. "Last night. What did you do with the number?"

"What number?"

"The one Ken Doll slipped you. Got the feeling he thought you were pretty smokin’ too."

"Seriously?" I pinned him with a look. "I tossed it. The guy was hitting on girls at a charity event.  How hard up is he?"

"Huh." Danny picked his camera up off the table and lifted it to his eye, shooting off a couple pictures of the peeling pink paint across the street. 

I hated it when he did that. Masking his expression with photographic equipment was conversation-cheating as far as I was concerned.  

I nudged him with my foot. "'Huh' what? What's the 'huh' supposed to mean?"

He kept shooting as he answered. "Nothing. I just thought he looked like your type."

Oh, this was going to be good. "And exactly what type would that be?"

He shrugged, setting the camera down on the table between us. "Polished,
GQ
, hair sprayed into place with lacquer."

"Hey, it moved when he nodded."

Danny grinned.

"And, I'll have you know, that is so
not
my type."

"Oh yeah?" He leaned both elbows on the table and trained his eyes – green now in the bright afternoon sun – on me. "What is your type then, Bond?"

Luckily, I've known Danny long enough that I didn't take the bait. "I'll let you know when I see it," I mumbled instead, lifting my drink to my lips.

"Good." Danny leaned back in his seat. "Then I still have a chance."

I threw another tortilla chip at him.

"Soooo," I said, drawing out the word, "tell me more about your bikini shoot. Did
you
get a phone number?" For those of you paying attention, yes, that was my attempt at a clever conversation change.

Danny got a wicked look in his eyes. The same one that the pirated-out Johnny Depp had in Maya's screensaver at the office. Total ravage and plunder.

"Numbers. Plural." He held up two fingers, his grin stretching.

"Never mind. You've told me enough."

"I think they were twins. And, man, were they a flexible pair. The one could wrap both legs around her-" 

"You are
such
a pig."

"I'm a pig, you're girly - we're the perfect pair."

A glimpse of blue metal flashed over Danny’s shoulder, and I sat up in my chair as Maguire’s vintage Mustang pulled up in front of the apartment building.

"Oh yeah? Well, watch and learn, Porky. This is how Girly gets her mark."

Danny swiveled in his seat just in time to see Maguire – tall, wide, and all veiny muscles - slip into the third unit on the bottom row. I threw a twenty on the table, Danny grabbed his camera, and we sprinted across the street.

"I’ll take the back," I called over my shoulder as Danny slid with his back against the wall toward the third door. He nodded once, then aimed his camera at the front window.

Trying to do a mix of nonchalance and speed, I rounded the corner of the building, counting the tiny, fenced-in patios until I found Maguire’s gal’s. With a quick look over my shoulder, I hiked up my skirt and hoisted myself up and over the fence, landing on a cracked cement patio that looked into the back rooms of the apartment. A sliding glass door with a ripped screen led into the living room. Next to it was a high window emitting tell-tale moaning sounds.        

"Right there, baby," a woman’s voice encouraged.

Maguire grunted in response.

I slipped a slim digital camera from my pocket and stepped on tip-toe, lifting my lens just above the window sill.

Maguire was naked, his steroid pumped ass pounding into an African American woman in a pink negligee.

"That’s it, do it to me, baby," she moaned.

I popped off a series of shots in rapid succession. This was almost too easy. I shifted under the window, getting three more incriminating photos of full frontal Maguire, and was just about to slink away and do a victory dance when a car horn sounded somewhere behind me.

And Maguire looked up.

Our eyes locked for a full two seconds before the light bulb moment hit him, and his face contorted with rage.

"Oh. Shit."

I shoved the camera in my pocket, and ran for the fence, grabbing on and hoisting myself up as adrenaline surged from my belly. I had one leg over before Maguire’s naked form burst through the back door.

"Give me that camera, bitch!"

I quickly pulled the other leg up, dropping with a thud on the other side and took off running.

But unfortunately, since I wasn’t hopped up on muscle juice, Maguire was a whole lot faster. Three strides into it, he caught me, pouncing from behind.

"Uhn!" I fell forward from the force, scraping my hands as I hit the pavement.

"My fuckin’ wife send you?" he spat out as he flipped me over. He straddled me, his beefy hands pinning my wrists to the ground.

I pushed against his weight, but there was no way I was winning this wrestling match. I wriggled underneath his bulk, twisting my head to the side to avoid his hot breath on my face. I pushed up against his hands, causing him to shift his weight forward as he continued to pin me. I pushed up again. Once more… then quickly slid both arms straight down to my sides. Predictably, his body pitched forward, face first. I lifted my forehead with a jerk and head-butted him in the nose.

"Hell!" he yelled. Blood oozed from his nostrils, stunning him, his hands immediately flying to his face. I took the opportunity to kick my right leg upward and over his, flipping him onto his back. Then sent a swift knife-hand chop to his neck, hitting his carotid artery.

I stood up and quickly backed away as he gasped for breath, wheezing like a sick animal.

As I labored to get my own panic-fueled breathing back under control, Danny jogged around the side of the building.

Gotta love the man’s timing.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah." I glanced down at my silk blouse. An ugly red stain was spreading down the front. "But he ruined my shirt."

Danny looked from me to Maguire, concern quickly melting into a smile as he shook his head. "Jesus, I can’t take you anywhere, Bond."

*  *  *

After an afternoon with Maguire I needed a long, hot shower and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.

Unfortunately, as soon as I got home I realized I had racked up two more voicemails from Derek.

I dropped onto my sofa with a sigh. I thought about ignoring them, but sadly, knowing Derek, that wouldn’t make him go away. Instead, I reluctantly keyed my pin number into the voicemail system.

"Hey, it's me," came the first one, dated last night. "Just checking in. How'd things go with the judge? Call me."

I hit delete.

Even though Derek had officially retired to his houseboat last year after being shot in the shoulder by a married father of three caught with a Russian hooker in North Hollywood, he still wanted a report on every mark. I'd like to think it was because fishing in Marina Del Rey wasn't enough to occupy the mind of a twenty-seven year veteran of the P.I. business and not because he thought I needed checking up on.

That's what I'd
like
to think.

"Me again." Derek's voice filled my apartment as the second message clicked on. "Aren't you back yet? What the hell is taking so long? This was an in-and-out case, James.  Don't tell me you’re still working him? It's nine-fifteen for Christ’s sakes. I'd have had him in twenty minutes. Call me."

I gave my phone the finger.

The next few messages followed in similar fashion, growing increasingly pissed.   

I deleted them all and crossed to the kitchen, pulling out a white egg timer.

When I was seventeen and doing a shoot for
French Vogue
in Cannes, I'd been stupid enough to try a line of coke an over-friendly photographer had offered. I'd ended up in the emergency room, not because of the coke, but because my high alter ego had suddenly thought herself invincible and dove off the top tier of a yacht into the Mediterranean in the middle of the night. I'd broken two ribs and smashed my face into the rotor, which left me bruised beyond the help of airbrushing for a month. My agent had been furious. He'd sent me to therapy to make sure this kind of "self destructive behavior" never dented his bank account again.  

The therapy, honestly, hadn't been all that bad. Having someone actually look at me for me and not as a clothes hanger was a novelty, and it had been nice to talk to someone who was required to at least pretend to listen to me. Unlike Derek.  

The best advice I'd taken away from the therapy was to set limits when I talked to Derek. Take him in small doses. Hence, the egg timer.

I wound the timer up for five minutes, took a deep breath, and dialed his number.

It rang six times, and I was just about to give up when a woman's voice answered.

"Yell-o?" she called. Followed by a cigarette stained giggle.

"Is Derek in?"

"Who's askin'?" Her accent was part Valley Girl and part trailer park, and I could hear a muffled male voice in the background.  

"Jamie."

"Well, Jamie, Derek is otherwise occ-u-pied," she drew out the word. Then there was more muffled noise, followed by a swatting sound and a high pitched, "Oh, you naughty boy."  

I took another deep breath, inhaling patience. As much as I wanted to hang up now, I knew it would only mean three more messages by tomorrow.

"Would you please tell Derek that his
daughter
is on the line?"

The giggling stopped. "He didn't tell me about no daughter."

"He never does," I murmured more to myself than Derek’s shocked flavor of the month.

I heard the phone being handed off, then Derek's voice. "James, is that you?"

"Unless you have another daughter."

"Nothing's been proven yet."

"Ha ha. Very funny."

"Hey, cut the old man some slack, huh?"

"You left me six messages?" I prompted, hoping to get this over with.    

"Is that all it takes to get my daughter to call me back these days? Just six."

"I was feeling generous."

"So, how did the judge thing go?" I could hear him popping something in his mouth. Probably Cap’n Crunch, knowing Derek. "Got anything yet? You know, James, you gotta move fast with these high profile clients. They expect instant gratification, if you know what I mean."

"Things went fine with the judge. We nailed him last night."

"Hey, good for you, pal. So, which one of the Bond Girls did you end up taking with you? That blonde one? God, she's hot."

I tilted my head to the side, and checked my timer. Three minutes left.

Shit.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. Honest. In fact, I'd venture to say there wasn't a woman in all of L.A. County that hadn't at one time or another fallen in love with Derek Bond. Think L.A.’s answer to Magnum P.I. Laid back, charming, and a real man's man. Unfortunately I’m a girl's girl, so you can see where we butted heads.

Plus, there was the fact that, hoping I'd come out a bouncing baby boy, Derek had named me James. James Bond. Yeah, I know. How do you forgive a guy for something like that?

"She has a name, Derek. It's Caleigh. And, yes, I took both her and Sam."

"Which one's Sam? The one with the legs?"

"They all have legs."

"Yeah, but not like hers, honey."

I looked at the timer. Two-thirty. "Don't you have company to entertain, Derek?"

"You wouldn't be trying to get rid of your dear old dad, would you?"

"Heaven forbid."

"All right, all right, I'll let you go, James. Just tell me who you’re working tomorrow?"

"Shankman. Married seven years. Doing the nanny. We’re sitting on the place during his lunch break."

"We?"

"I’m taking Danny."

Derek paused, silence overtaking the other end of the line. "I don't trust him, James."

"His photos are excellent, and you know it."

"I didn't say his pictures were bad. I said I didn't trust the man. He's a player."

"Takes one to know one," I mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing.  Listen, Derek, I can handle Danny. I'm a big girl. I'm a trained professional, remember?"

"I'll go with you."

"No!" I jumped up from the sofa, banging my shin on the coffee table. "Ow! Shit."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I mumbled rubbing my leg. I could feel an unattractive lump growing there already. "Look, I'm doing Shankman at noon. I'm taking Danny.
You
are staying home with Miss Tricks there, and if you don't, so help me God, I'll call Dr. Pederson and remind him you haven't had your annual rectal yet."

Derek chomped down hard on a Cap'n Crunch nugget. "Oh that was a low blow, James."

"Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Fine. But call me when you nail him. And I mean it this time!" he shouted, then hung up on me.

Just as the egg timer buzzed.

That’s it, I
really
needed a drink.

*  *  *

After I’d counted to ten, done a couple calming yoga breaths, and popped the top on a Corona, I flipped the TV on and walked over to the windows, staring out at the valley below me.

When I'd moved here from New York three years ago, I'd instantly fallen in love with this apartment, not because of its size – lord knows the twelfth floor loft was one step up from a shoe box – but because of the windows. They spanned the entire back side of the open room, laying all of Hollywood sprawled out in front of me. On particularly clear days, of which I admit there are few below the smog level, I could see all the way from my point in Studio City almost to the ocean.